KARRIN: Warrior Child

Chapter 1

The year 2126 – Planet Earth – London, England

“What’s this twerp’s name?” a whiny voice demanded, the sound of fingers drumming on a metal desk audible in the crowded office.

“Ah, Karen Number 1685,” stammered a woman as she peered down at a tablet in her hand.  She licked her lips and glanced up at the woman who overshadowed her slight frame.

“Damn, another number,” said the shrill voice in a huff.  “Don’t people use last names anymore?  Where’s her family?”

“Well, it says here they don’t want her, Matron.”  Scared eyes darted toward the little girl standing next to her.

The child’s head jerked up, defiance flashing in her strange blue/silver eyes.  “They’re not my family,” she retorted, chin held up high.

The pudgy Matron towering over her backhanded the little girl with a loud slap.  She smirked with glee as the unwanted waif bounced off the gray wall, into a cabinet, then fell, face-down, on the cracked, green tiled floor.

“You, little bitch,” Matron yelled, hands on beefy hips, spit flying.  “You don’t talk unless I tell you to.  You don’t move unless I tell you to.  You don’t fucking breathe unless I tell you to.”  She jammed her steel-toed shoes into the small, limp body.  They were made for this purpose and worth the extra credits.  “Now, get your ass up here, on this line, and keep your mouth shut.”

The small child climbed to her feet, stood on the line, and wobbled for a few seconds before she gained her balance. 

Grimacing, Matron rubbed her right hand.  Damn!  Either I’m getting soft, or these bitches are getting harder.  A grin spread across her face when the child pushed her hair back, revealing blood dripping from her nose, and the right side of the mouth.  The red welt of a handprint was clearly visible against the pale cheekbone.  

Matron snickered.  I haven’t lost my touch after all.  Twenty-five years of backhanding insolent, little twats had given her a lot of practice.

The tablet was snatched from the cowering assistant’s hands.  A fat finger moved across the screen as Matron read what was displayed, her mouth moving with each word.  After she was done, she sneered at the bleeding child. 

“This one’s a real loser.  Her own family don’t want her.  Says here she’s also retarded.  Crap!  Another dummy.  I hate dummies.  Guard!” she hollered, making the other people in the room flinch.  “Take this useless piece of shit to a cell and read her the rules of the Home.” 

With narrow vindictive eyes, she continued, “And, if I see any of you pansies going soft with her, you’ll be doing the sewer detail for a year. Go on.  Get her out of my sight.”

An evil smile broke out on her pasty, pockmarked face as Matron watched the frail girl being hauled down the hallway by her collar.  The helpless child stumbled along, trying to keep up with the long strides of the female guard.  In the process, she was slammed into each doorway. 

That’ll teach the little retard.  No one talks back to me.  In all her years as Matron, only one bitch tried it twice.  Matron fingered the trusty nightstick on her hip.  The mouthy twerp met her end with a hard whap up along the side of the head.  Since these bitches died all the time, one more was no big deal.

After she stomped back into her office, she noticed her assistant cowering in the corner.  God, how I hate weaklings.  Of course, if Mavis didn’t snivel in fear, she wouldn’t be there, now.  

Matron smiled to herself, remembering the young Mavis as she offered her fresh, perky body for special privileges. Boys were her main sexual toys, but Mavis was hard to resist, so she accepted the deal.  Unfortunately, girls turn into women.

No longer able to enjoy the pleasure of her body, Matron trained her to be an assistant. A job Mavis performed efficiently. Sadly, the years hadn’t been kind to Mavis. Her premature gray hair and wrinkled face were a constant reminder old age chased her, too.

Well, there are plenty more where she came from. I’ll contact Warden and ask if he wants her for his guards.  Hmmm.  Not a bad idea. 

Matron was ready for some younger boy-toys as the older ones had lost their sexual appeal.  I have several girls turning sixteen.  Maybe I’ll offer them to Warden in exchange for some fresh blood.  He can choose if he wants to keep them for himself or hand them over to his guards. Either way, the bitches will be fighting with each other, hoping to be picked.  

Matron chuckled at the twats ignorance.  The bitches thought being picked to serve on Warden’s yacht meant easy street for them.  If they saw what fate had in store for them, they’d be begging for prison or one of the farms on the marshes.   Once Warden impregnated them, they were either left on some obscure island to fend for themselves or tossed overboard.  No one would miss them.  No one cared.

Assessing her tit-for-tat assistant, Matron licked her lips, anticipating the breaking in of new playthings.  “Mavis, dear,” she said, her voice like sugar.  “Check if Warden is available.  I have a sweet trade for him.  One his boys will enjoy.”  She softly patted one pale, thin cheek with her chubby hand.

Horror and understanding crept across Mavis’ once beautiful face, causing Matron’s stomach to flutter with excitement.  She rubbed her massive thighs together, the tingle of sexual tension mounting.  Somewhere, her six boys were roaming through the Home, terrorizing whichever girls caught their eyes.  They might be too old for her now, but they learned how to scratch her itch.  And, she was feeling very itchy.

“Yes, Matron,” Mavis whispered, her head bowed, shoulders slumped in despair.  She turned and shuffled out the door, looking as if she were heading toward her execution.

She most likely is, Matron thought with a shrug. I doubt Mavis will last two weeks. Not after the repeated gangbangings from the horny boys and guards.

If she’s lucky, she won’t catch Warden’s fancy.  Rumors flew about his kinky, sexual practices. He took BDSM to the extreme.

The vid beeped as Matron squeezed her round buttocks into her padded chair.  Grunting, she removed the weighted nightstick from her hip, and dropped it on top of the gray, metal desk.  She punched a button and Warden’s face flickered to life.  As usual, a frown marred his craggy, handsome looks.

“Matron, I’ve received some disquieting news from the Master of the Boy’s Home.”  He narrowed his eyes at her further.  “Your credits aren’t adding up correctly.  Your Home has more bodies than it can handle.”

The man leaned forward and pursed his lips at her.  “I thought we had an understanding about not becoming too greedy.  As long as we don’t raise any red flags through the Central Registry Computer, no one will check to see if the credits allocated to our facilities don’t match our body counts.  Your greed is jeopardizing years of flawless planning.”

Sweat trickled down Matron’s rolls of fat, making her uniform shirt stick to her back as she squirmed in her chair.  Damn the ass-kissing Master of the Boy’s Home.  Each month, she padded her inventory by one or two more bodies.  She didn’t expect to be caught, or that Warden would care.  He’s probably doing the same thing. 

Ever since Public Welfare went into law, they’d been inundated with orphans. All a parent had to do was sign their kid over as either a retard or an unwanted.  Once the brat got into the system as an orphan, they never left.  

Though they were no longer wards of the state, once they turned sixteen, none of them left.  Instead, they were sent to a Prison colony, a farm, or to Warden’s yacht.  All were a life sentence.

Warden glanced down at a tablet he was holding.  “It says here you’re claiming 730 girls, but you know the Home only has room for 700.  And, you recently received more credits for an additional teacher.”  

He looked back up, cruel eyes condemning her.  “The last time I was there, I counted 312 girls, so you’re receiving 700 credits each for the 388 girls you don’t actually have.  Aren’t that enough credits to fund your offshore account?  Don’t forget, I’m the one who set it up.  I know how much you have hoarded away.”

Matron’s heart stuttered in her chest.  Shit!  How dare he keep tabs on my credits.  Who gave him the authority?  

Mouth suddenly dry, she took a sip of water.  “Ah, it’s them damn unwanteds.  You know if’n they’re under five years old I gotta hold them for, at least, six months, just in case their parents want them back.  And, I got another one, today, plus she’s a retard to boot.  Between them and the little assholes that keep dying, my bookkeeping gets all messed up.  I’ll have a talk with my assistant and see if’n we can’t get this cleared up.”

“You do that,” Warden said with a sneer.  “This is your last warning.”  He reached out his hand, and his image disappeared.

A loud sigh escaped Matron’s lips as she slumped in her chair.  God, I hate licking his balls.  I can’t wait until I have enough credits to retire.  She already had her eye on a yacht she wanted to buy.  Better and bigger than the one Warden owned.

To add more credits to her account, she also started a profitable synthetic drug refinery in the sewers.  Warden loved her idea when she approached him with the suggestion.  But, does he lend any help?  No.  All he wants is his share of the profits.  Why didn’t I keep the idea to myself?

Though she had to admit, the threat of working in the deadly tunnels made an excellent punishment tool.  Not only did she have free labor but most of the girls didn’t live past a year.  So, she received credits for bodies she didn’t have to spend resources on.

Chair squeaking loudly, she pushed away from her desk.  Time to make my rounds and find out how many bodies I lost overnight.  It might be time to clean out the incinerator.  

Rising, she grabbed her nightstick off the desk and slammed it into the holster on her tire-sized waist.  Out the office she stomped and headed down the dismal, gray corridor.  The farther she walked, the angrier she became. 

How dare Warden dictate to me?  I’m doing the best I can. My thieving staff doesn’t help me, either.   

It wasn’t easy, keeping a constant eye out, to stop them from skimming credits.  She even caught a few of them helping some of the orphans.  Matron harrumphed.  Why would anyone want to help them?  No one outside cares, so why should they?  She certainly didn’t.

Matron proceeded down the hallway and caught sight of a ten-year-old deformed girl washing the floor on her hands and knees. She knew this child.  Her name was Alice and she was also a retard.  

Teeth gritted in anger, Matron removed her riding crop from next to the nightstick and stopped where the girl labored away.  Face flushed red, the disgusted woman started beating the child about her head and shoulders.  God, how I hate dummies.

Alice didn’t acknowledge the whipping and kept scrubbing, back and forth, with her brush.  Infuriated, Matron beat her harder, and harder.  The abused girl finally fell over, legs pulled up to her chest, whimpering in pain and fear.

Breathing heavily, with a malicious smile, Matron glared down at the bleeding girl.  Yes. I’m God around here and nobody will ever forget it.